


New Game, Different Players

by insanemoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime, Espionage, F/M, Gen, Suspense, Thriller, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1261738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanemoriarty/pseuds/insanemoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With John off having his own marriage-related adventures, Sherlock is yet again left to solve crimes on his own. Disregarding the wishes of his own brother, Sherlock interferes in national affairs. Mycroft's protégé, who is already assigned to the mission, now has to make sure Sherlock does not compromise the entire operation as Mycroft expects him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The halls were quiet. Unbearably quiet for most, but the purpose of it was that it was very much needed among the frequent visitors who were all about as dark and wooden as the building’s interior. It also helped that none of its visitors were quite social. Or at least not when they didn’t need to be. Even a cough or sniffle was incredibly out of place and were grounds for removal from the premises. It may have sounded harsh but the need for all this was significant.

People didn’t come here to be reminded of the outside world. They came here to be alone with their thoughts. One would occasionally read a book or newspaper provided the turning of the pages was not to be too loud for others to handle. Many of the visitors knew each other but they either already worked in close enough contact where further interaction was not necessary, or they were enemies even in the public’s eye. It was for the sake of everyone that interaction was not allowed.

The club for men who would absolutely hate even the idea of being in any other society in London, the Diogenes Club usually comprised of some of the most prestigious men in all of the highest positions in every field you could imagine. The only difference between them and those in other institutions were their social habits. The club was not exclusive to intelligent, powerful people, although you would think otherwise if you recognized its members.

One room, however, differed from the others in terms of social etiquette. Looking like a library in an old mansion, a few leather chairs and mahogany tables were strewn about. A main desk at the center of it was usually tidy when it was not in use. A crystal decanter set was situated in the corner, always filled to the brim in a £300 bottle of scotch, although it was hardly ever touched unless a stressful situation arose. When business and politics did exist in this building, this is where it would take place. This was the Stranger’s Room. And it was the only place members of the Diogenes Club could speak to one another.

This was where many called home, but none more than one of the club’s cofounders, Mycroft Holmes, who haunted these walls like a well-dressed gentleman looking to have a cup of tea in peace. He now sat in the Stranger’s Room with a plethora of files in front of him on the desk, wearing a suit so black the only part that made you feel slightly optimistic upon meeting him was the blue tie with yellow umbrellas on it. He used the Stranger’s Room more than any of the other members, making him by far the most sociable. His job called for social skills, but none of them casual, for his occupation was unlike any in the entire world. Despite CFO’s, parliament members, even royalty belonging to the Diogenes Club, none were more powerful and more intelligent than Mycroft Holmes. And the Stranger’s Room is where many of his world-changing ideas came into being. Here he sat on most days saving lives: the unsung hero of England. Today, though, was different. Today he sat across another; one who had not been in these halls for many years.

She sat in the aged brown leather club chair, her legs crossed her brows furrowed and head tilted as she absorbed page by page of one of the many files Mycroft had presented her with. Tiny beads of sweat spread across her forehead caused from the roaring fire on the side of the room. She’d have taken her blazer off if she had even noticed her body was trying to tell her something. It was too trivial to have mattered at that moment. Even most murders seemed somewhat trivial compared to the documents in these files.

She had just finished her notes on the first of the dozens of files when the door to the room flew open and in stormed an unexpected visitor. He was tall and lanky with sharp facial features and keen eyes that looked as if they were somewhere else entirely.

She had barely lifted her pen off the legal pad when he threw his long coat off into the corner and began in his rage. “This is the last time I consult to anyone but Lestrade! Despite my international notoriety and flawless record these ‘detective inspectors’ that barely find their keys every morning have the audacity to wait several hours, sometimes even days to ask for a consultation. At that point they might as well have had all the neighbor’s kids have a go at solving the crime and contaminating the crime scene while they’re at it,” his baritone voice vociferated furiously. Mycroft could just barely look up and let out an exasperated sigh before the man went on pacing back and forth and starting to explain his arduous adventure.

“A murder, of course. All the money and jewelry in the safe were stolen in a professor’s mansion in Kent. Apparently his secretary caught the thief but was murdered by some woman, according to his dying words. Only a pair of broken eyeglasses lay nearby – the murderer’s glasses, of course. A thinly paved walkway with no footprints outside of the pavement, which would have been visible as it had rained two nights ago. All this they told me a full day after they investigated and found nothing. A few hours earlier Detective Hopkins called to tell me-“

“She had escaped. The thief and murderer had been hiding in the house all along,” Mycroft finished as if he were stating it was raining outside. “If she had left there would have been tracks in the mud next to the walkway as she couldn’t see that well without her glasses. She was hidden by staff, a fellow co-conspirator, I assume?”

“The maid,” the other man grimaced. “I could have easily deduced this had they contacted me right away. Instead they waited until the next day when the maid could easily have snuck out with her friend. They’ve contacted Interpol but I doubt they’ll be caught.” The man let out a furious sigh as he stopped pacing in front of the window. He stood there a while looking out into the dusky night before finally snapping his fingers toward Mycroft’s companion, still gazing outwards. “I’ll have a coffee, black, two sugars.”

She raised her eyebrows and looked at Mycroft, who clasped his hands and leaned back in his chair. He knew this was not going to end well. For whom though, he wasn’t certain. The woman was his protégé, and the man was his intelligent younger brother.

Her response to his demand was quietly sitting there, staring back at him with a curious expression. The silence finally built in the room to the point where the other man realized no one had yet moved. At this point he turned around to look at the woman who he had just addressed, and his confused, slightly agitated facial expression changed to one of understanding.

“You must be the other Holmes brother. I have to confess I am not in the slightest impressed by your observation skills,” she admitted coolly. Her voice was soft and quiet, as if she were directing a meditation course.

He took a deep breath in and stood up straighter, buttoning the top button on his blazer. And that’s when he finally decided to have a good look.

A hardened face. Perfect posture. A muscular build. All of it pointing to combat experience. Her long dark hair fell around her face, no strand out of place. Very minimal amount of makeup on. Her job required her to be presented to other people, but not for her looks. Her dark hair had a few streaks of grey in it. Not many, but for her youthful face, definitely off. Either genetic or stress-related. Most likely both. And there was, of course, the fact that she had no inkling of who he was. She clearly had not been reading any newspapers in this country. Or even abroad, as most newspapers had begun to write about this crime-solving genius. She had not only been out of this country but out of many first world countries.

He tried to read more off of her, perhaps the pinstripe pantsuit, the military-like demeanor, anything, but got nothing. He furrowed his brow. There should be more. Why isn’t there more? And then it hit him. She’s trying. She trying not to be deduced, if she can help it. She’s erasing any clue that might set anyone off, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. People had done it before. But they usually made mistakes. It was difficult fooling the world’s greatest detective. How did she do it? What was he missing?

And then it hit him. He raised his head and looked at Mycroft who sat there looking as smug as ever.

He helped her. He is helping her. This is his favorite. This is his protégé. She’s one of his government operatives.

He cleared his throat and looked confidently back at her. “I…I thought you were his assistant.”

“Of course,” she calmly stated, taking hold of the crystal scotch glass in front of her. “Kassandra.”

“Not your real name, obviously,” he declared before pulling over one of the chairs previously set aside and sat down.

“Obviously,” she affirmed, taking the slightest of sips and setting aside her glass.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he distractedly stated as his eyes started scanning over the documents on the table.

It was at this point Mycroft interjected. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?” he asked through gritted teeth as he tried to close any open files.

“Ranting,” sighed Sherlock. “John’s away on his honeymoon and I’m apparently prevented from ensuring justice.”

Mycroft snorted in laughter. “Since when do you care about justice?”

“Well, it’s either that or-“

“Drugs,” she finished, already scanning through another file on the table. “Hardly surprising. Not many other alternatives to distract a heavily stimulated mind.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows in mild amusement. This was far more excitement than this clubhouse seen since Margaret Thatcher’s membership.

Sherlock turned back to her with the slightest of glares and narrowed his eyes. “I was going to say meddle in my dear brother’s affairs. Someone has to prevent him for advancing British imperialism.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft irritably intervened, all traces of merriment gone from his face. “While I sympathize that your pet is out of town, I’m afraid you’ll have to find accompaniment elsewhere. We are in the middle of a highly delicate matter that requires our utmost attention, and this is the last time and place your childishness is appreciated.”

She observed the conversation with curiosity. Although it felt like a personal familial argument that she shouldn’t have been present for, she couldn’t help but examine the captivating social study. Judging by the imperious look on Mycroft’s face, he still thought of his brother as a child that had much to learn. Sherlock’s contemptuous face showed that he thought Mycroft would never be satisfied by whatever he may accomplish. And none of this was said with words. In fact, the room remained incredibly quiet and still until Sherlock finally stood up.

“Very well then. I…erm…apologize,” he stammered out, although it was more to me than to Mycroft. And with a nod and a flourish of his long coat, he had left the room, leaving behind a baffled Mycroft.

“I apologize for my brother,” he sighed with a forced smile. It was clear that it was neither the first nor last time he had to apologize for his brother. “Now, where were we?” He spread out the files some more, shuffling through them. “If you’ll direct your attention to the main file…” He flipped through them repeatedly, looking more and more bemused with each wrong file. 

She figured it out before he did. Or at least it seemed that way. Perhaps he was just hoping for the best. Now he sat back in his chair, fingers massaging his temples as if the world’s biggest migraine had flown in with a billowing coat.

“Get some rest, Mycroft. I’ll handle this.”


	2. Chapter Two

It was still early in the evening, so when she told Mycroft she’d handle the missing files, she didn’t rush. She went back to her five-star hotel, took a shower in her suite, and got dressed in another pinstriped pantsuit with a dark purple silk blouse, taking her time as she wished.

It had been two whole hours since Sherlock Holmes had left the Stranger’s Room, file in hand without either of their immediate knowledge, so why wasn’t she in a rush to get all this classified government information back? If Sherlock was anything like her mentor, he had a photographic memory, which meant he had the entirety of that folder memorized fifteen minutes after he left the apartment (although her mentor would have only needed ten). It had had taken them no more than five minutes to realize Sherlock’s theft. Baker Street was only approximately twenty minutes away via cab so, provided Sherlock was waiting to get back to the apartment to properly look at the file, that meant she would have had fifteen minutes to travel a twenty-minute route, provided he was headed straight to back to his apartment. That may have not been likely as he had probably also figured out his chances of being caught and would have not only started reading the case file right away, but had asked the cab driver to drive around London while he took his merry old time flipping through Britain’s top secrets. The point was that he was long gone and the secrets already absorbed into his mind. There was no point in rushing to his address.

Twilight had settled by the time she got into the sleek, black car she was lent. Anthea sat next to her doing Mycroft’s bidding on her mobile phone as the mysterious driver started up the engine. “221 Baker Street,” she ordered, not even bothering to look up from her phone as she addressed the driver who, despite being two feet away from her at least four times a day, she knew almost nothing about. It’s not that Anthea wasn’t observant; it’s that she didn’t care to observe. Mycroft had taught Kassandra better though. Her mind was never idle and she didn’t care for such distractions as smartphones and tablets unless research was warranted. 

She had registered the driver yesterday when he had picked her up from the private hangar. The man was in his mid-forties, two children, one of whom had just started teething judging from the deep indents on his leather watch, given to him by his wife who he no longer held strong feelings for as her gifts held no sentimental value to him and rather stood in as a chew toy for his child, newborn going by the bags under his eyes and that distant gaze on the roadway. Once a handsome man now deteriorated by the monotonous life he chose, driving Anthea and occasionally Mycroft’s associates around in silence were the highlight of his day, as could be seen by how he brushed tiny particles of dust off the dashboard occasionally while his own personal objects remained unkempt.

She couldn’t often make deductions about Mycroft, but this driver led her to one of her few. This man was starting to become nearsighted judging by how he squinted at some of the road signs he wasn’t already familiar with, making his driving somewhat mediocre. Mycroft usually required all of his employees be practically the best in their respective fields (Anthea being an excellent example of someone who remains on top all the information she can gather). He was not a cruel man but merely just. So why would he keep a driver who was currently driving an inch into the shoulder of the street? The answer to that was something that the driver held for this job: sentiment.

If she could easily deduce all this information, Mycroft had already done so and, despite his need for efficiency and practicality, this man was still here. Many thought her mentor to be cold, to know nothing of sentiment and empathy, but here sat a man whose one happiness was driving Mycroft around, however poorly, instead of someone whose skill exceeded that of many qualified applicants. While Mycroft never had to deal with a demanding personal life, he understood the unpleasantness of it, and saw it specifically in his driver. This was his act of kindness – allowing this man an outlet from it all.

The man pulled up to a set of apartment buildings on a steadily quieting street, going slightly over the curb in the process. The vibrancy of the day was all but depleted here as the occupants of the street began to settle in their pajamas.

“Will you be long?” Anthea asked Kassandra as the latter slipped on a pair of leather gloves and reached for the door handle.

“I doubt it,” she replied confidently. “But you needn’t stay. I’ll catch a cab back and meet with Mycroft in the morning with the files.”

She waited until the driver steered away before turning to the darkened door labeled “221B” in gold. She straightened the knocker before using it to catch the attention of whoever would answer.

A tiny old woman who beamed at her immediately opened the door. Blonde with short hair and a long pink dress, this was the last type of person she was expecting. “Hello, dear! Sherlock was just expecting you. I’ve prepared a nice cuppa for the two of you. Ring me if you need anything else!” She stepped aside to reveal a staircase leading upstairs where no doubt Sherlock was waiting for her. 

So he was expecting her. This was…odd. Or was it? She had not given an inkling of thought to what she should expect. She was confident the files would most certainly be in her hand by the end of the evening but she thought it would involve something clever. Perhaps discreetly obtaining it like he had in the Stranger’s Room. Perhaps even by force. But the fact that he was awaiting her changed the game slightly. She mentally scolded herself for not expecting this.

The room she proceeded to enter was in a complete disarray. There were items such as animal bones and mountain climbing equipment resting atop books about textiles and anatomy on a table you could barely see the surface of. The bookshelves against the wall were filled to the point of books resting horizontally atop the other books. The Aeneid stood next to a text on stem cells. Nothing had rhyme or reason. Unlike Mycroft, who kept everything organized alphabetically, color-coded, and neatly arranged, this man had obviously found comfort in chaos, although she shouldn’t have been surprised seeing as how the knocker remained mostly crooked judging by how the surface of the door was exceptionally cleaner where the crooked knocker’s silhouette was.

In the middle of all this chaos sat Sherlock reading the paper in front of a fireplace across from an empty chair with two cups of tea in front of each chair. “You’re a little later than I expected. I assume Mycroft hasn’t fired that clinically depressed driver of his yet? It seems he’s gotten himself a little pet. Well-“ he looked up from his newspaper at me, “an additional one, I should say.” He set the paper next to his cup.

She observed the overstuffed chair in front of them. Recently cleaned. Drag marks on the carpet beneath it to and from this room. Nothing on its side table, also recently cleaned. Half-full boxes scattered around apartment. For anyone else, it would have looked like a one-sided breakup. But she did her research on Sherlock Holmes before arriving tonight, making his erratic behavior during their initial meeting understandable. It was a one-sided breakup, to some extent.

“I see yours has recently run away,” she retorted, pulling her eyes away from the mayhem around to finally have a seat. She continued as she spooned some sugar into her tea. “You have the dramatic flair of your brother. It must run in the family.”

She looked up from her cup just in time to see a slight twitch of annoyance on his face, telling her all she needed to know about their relationship: resentment from the younger child from always having to be overshadowed by the older, smarter, controlling brother. The fact that he had turned to Mycroft to express himself to earlier today also showed his social habits. How lonely must one be to have to turn to someone he so disdains?

“I only assumed my loan didn’t go unmissed,” he replied, resuming his calm demeanor.

“Theft. And no, it did not. Now if you’ll excuse me…” She held her hand out in between them.

He reached down and pulled the file from among a pile of books by his feet. She noticed a faint indent on his skin just above his cuff. Realizing this had meant that he had done his own research, she let out a frustrated sigh and dropped her hand as he continued to open the file.

“Malcolm Everett, one of Britain’s top investors,” he read off, half summarizing. “About fifty-fifty rate of his investments paying off, leaving his income to stay steady. But it doesn’t, does it? Fifty percent increase two years ago.” He flipped the page. “Seventy-five percent increase last year.” Yet another page flip. “And finally, a remarkable 300% increase this year. I see why this has gotten Mycroft’s attention.” He set the file down on the table in front of them. “Tell him I left some notes in there for him.”

“I was told-“

“You mean ordered,” he interrupted.

She glowered at him. “Asked to make you aware that you are not to get involved under any circumstances. At least not more than you already have,” she countered, taking possession of the file once and for all. She downed the cup of tea, craving for something far stronger when she arrived back to her hotel room.

“I would hardly trust the incompetence of the British government for this,” he let out with a snort. “More tea?”

She took a deep breath in order to relax herself. She had been told this interaction would prove to be difficult, if not infuriating. She had no idea how Mycroft could be able to put up with such pretentiousness. Or perhaps his behavior stemmed from competing with Mycroft. Either way, she would have felt far more comfortable on a mission rather than conversing with Sherlock Holmes.

“No. I have business to attend to.” She stood up, file in hand. “Not all of us have the time to keep an archive of tobacco ash.”

His jaw visibly hardened as he stood up to meet her gaze. “He’s trained you well, hasn’t he? You even have his brashness down precisely. Clearly you look up to him as an idol, despite knowing he holds countless puppet strings, even yours. How do you feel knowing you’re just a puppet? That you’re only here to do his bidding?” he inquired, getting quieter with every sentence.

She felt her loyalty stir inside her but with loyalty usually came aggression, so she coiled up her fingers tightly into a fist and released it, her way of discipline from unwanted emotion. “Whatever hostility you have towards him, leave national matters out of it. While you and your brother may not see eye to eye on most things, he’s the one in the seat of power, not you. Your job is to consult, and we don’t need your consultation on this case, but thank you for the offer, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

She walked away from the heated situation, glad to have put her diplomatic skills to use rather than her more aggressive ones. She shut the door on her way out, not even daring to view her adversary even in the corner of eye lest she get drawn in to another hostile situation. The man was not easy to work with and she couldn’t imagine how his previous partner had put up with him. Then again, he was known to act more pompously when his brother was involved.

It was an interesting relationship between the Holmes brothers. While she was never one to be social herself, sociology was one of her expertise. The interactions between the Holmes’s was a gold mine, if there ever was one, of social psychology. Each of them clearly had inferiority complexes, reinforced by their abnormally active brains. The younger held a deep resentment for the elder while the latter was merely more protective than anything. These two had a complicated history that was difficult for her to ignore. While she detested every second of her interaction with Sherlock, a small part of her hoped to see him again. While not very important or useful, no relationship had ever interested her more than that of the Holmes brothers.


	3. Chapter Three

It had barely been an hour since the first slivers of daylight broke through the cloudy dark. The neatly manicured lawns of the colossal suburban homes were veiled in droplets from the rain shower the night before. Amongst the vast expanse of greenery stood these large monuments of wealth that appeared to have been freshly painted in snowy white everyday. The bright facades hid dark interiors, where men and women were far too busy to remain for prolonged periods of time. The three story residences therefore remained mostly uninhabited, making the kilometers of land these few estates lay upon as quiet as a room in the Diogenes Club.

This is why Mycroft Holmes chose this particular remote region to occupy most of all despite owning a residence within walking distance to the Secret Intelligence Service building, where his work often found him. The loud sirens and honking, the smog-filled air, the chattering of the populace of the city – none of these appealed to him and only served as a distraction from his critical work. Although the travel distance was far greater, he thought it worth the time to be able to be left alone with his thoughts.

While the neighborhood stood as still as if nobody occupied these houses at all, one in particular usually experienced its initial activity around this time. This particular manor towered in the middle of open fields surrounded by every security measure known to man. A high stone fence marked off the area that no one dared intrude upon unless their lives meant nothing to them.

A lone figure, dressed in a grey three-piece suit as refined as the houses were, stood in one of the highest rooms of estate looking out upon the lawn, his mind dwelling on the one day when someone had had dared to risk everything to venture across it.

It was barely more than ten years ago that a lithe silhouette dropped down from the stone and iron fencing. As soon as it landed, it knew it had to be quick since the security system had already activated. It pulled out a small black laptop from the bag over its shoulder and immediately began furiously typing away, bypassing program after program. This was by far the most advanced one it had seen, but the issue at hand here was accuracy and speed. Luckily, prior practice served well and the systems were reset almost too easily, allowing the shadow to continue as if this home was where it naturally dwelt.

The next obstacle was infiltrating the building. The following tool to come out of the bag was a grappling hook, which was thrown onto the balcony that loomed above twin Doric pillars in the front of the manor. Climbing up the rope was less of a problem than bypassing the security of this place. With that job done, a small glasscutter was used to create a square next to the balcony lock before the shadow reached in, unlatched the lock, and stepped in with a sigh of relief, the first semi-audible sound to come from it yet.

This room clearly served to be a waiting room of some sort. There were chairs along the walls with a main reception desk next to a door embellished with royal filigree. The wallpaper was gold lined with red, clearly a recurring theme throughout the room judging by the cushions, curtains, etc.

No time was wasted as the mysterious individual quietly treaded forward, opening the main door to lead into the private office. A large window as tall as the room was to the left and sets of filing cabinets to the right. The grand prize above all though lay on the desk, in highly protected data files on a hard drive on the desktop at the center of the room.

The thief sat down immediately, inserted a USB flash drive into the computer, and began the coding process once more. This task was far more difficult than circumventing the security system outside. What this security system was protecting was far more valuable than any physical object inside any of these homes.

When the breach was complete, a data transfer was underway to the thief’s personal cache. As the files worked their way across platforms, the criminal browsed through certain classified files, surprise and fury growing with each passing second. The transfer completion came as a relief as some of the archives were too nauseating to handle at that precise moment.

Just as the thief looked away from the room for one second to place the thumb drive back into the bag though, an iron bar came out from nowhere, pressing against its throat as the bandit’s back was pulled into the front of the attacker. An elbow crashed into the side of the attacker making him falter as the metal bar, revealed as an umbrella, fell to the ground with a large clang, but this only delayed the attacker for a millisecond as he reached out and grabbed the intruder by the waist, slamming its body into the filing cabinet next to them, earning a crack from the bone followed by a loud scream.

The criminal lay almost paralyzed on the floor, clutching their right shoulder. A click of a handgun followed. “Kick the bag over here,” a deep voice breathed. Mycroft’s silhouette loomed over the figure dressed in tight-fitting black attire. He wore a navy blue dressing gown atop of a blue and white striped nightgown. The scene would almost have been comical if someone had not just tried to steal a decade’s worth of military secrets from his home.

The thief obeyed. He opened the bag up with his toe so as to scan the contents.

“There aren’t any weapons in there, if you’re looking. I’m a burglar, not a murderer. Wouldn’t want to steal all of the governments jobs, now would we?” The voice tried to sound as confident and unafraid as possible, but still ended up sounding rather shaky, most likely from the shoulder injury. But what first caught his attention was the pitch of the voice.

He leaned down and pulled the black ski mask off of the face, revealing a young, alluring woman. Short black hair cascaded down to frame her face. Her dark brown eyes, still looking as furious as if it had been he who broke into her home, glared back into his.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his gun hand still steady and unmoving as he stood back up.

“Alexandria.”

He scoffed. “Well, I suppose real names don’t matter at the moment anyway.” He picked up the thumb drive from the bag and crushed it beneath the sole of his slippers. “I’ve phoned the police so-“

“No, you haven’t,” she interrupted. He raised his eyebrows at her. She already noted that there were no phone lines connecting this house. The home had just been moved into and security measures against wire-tapping were not yet taken. She also noted that he had not touched his mobile yet as he came here the second he heard a sound. Looking at his screen would have made his eyes adjust to the light and here they were – in this dark room, his eyes working just fine.

He suppressed a shocked look on his face.

“Besides, you’re clearly aching to find out who hired me.”

“Well?” was the question that followed.

She smiled, masking the pain from what he now saw was a dislocated shoulder. “You’re not getting a word out of me,” she spat back.

“Such loyalty to someone who paid you to bring down a whole nation. I suppose you’re no use to me then. And since I assume you already know too much…” He pointed the gun directly between her eyes.

“Ever the murderer. But I suppose that’s what villains do.” She closed her eyes, somehow still looking as defiant as ever.

A quiet but urgent knock on the door brought him back to the present. The visitor wasted no time opening the door and letting herself in.

“Files ascertained,” she announced, dropping them down on top of the handcrafted mahogany desk.

“Were there any complications?” He walked over to the desk and sat down behind it, facing her while still in a slightly distracted state.

“Your brother himself is a complication.” He noticed a slight twitch of annoyance on her face but it faded almost immediately. He returned the look with a modest smile. 

“The result of growing up with me, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure you were an excellent brother.”

He leaned his head upon his hand on the table and glanced over at a table and two chairs in the corner. They were far less bedecked than anything else in the room. Two simple wooden chairs and a table, upon which was a glass chess set, pieces perfectly in place as if ready for a game with any one at any time. “Perhaps,” he responded in a distracted voice.

She followed his gaze. It was indeed curious that Mycroft was being so nostalgic on this day but the two of them were not the type to get personal. She kept quiet and waited for him to be ready for business once more.

“Is everything in order for your new mission?” he asked, bringing his gaze back to her. “Appointments made, facts gathered, plans fully thought out?”

“Have I ever disappointed you, sir?” He gazed at her and suppressed the urge to smile. She had never, in fact, disappointed him. She exceeded every expectation and became a fast, eager learner. He could have not have asked to have a better mentee. “We will need to plan to communicate as discreetly as possible from hence forth. I’ll talk to Anthea about precautions we can take. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Please do. Just one problem to address: Sherlock.”

She hardly batted an eye before responding, clearly showing that she herself thought of him as a problem to her mission also. “I plan to call Scotland Yard this evening and arrange for him to have a more…demanding schedule.”

He nodded, hoping it would be enough to distract his brother, but keeping his concerns silent. “I certainly hope you enjoy being back in a first world country,” he remarked, getting up and slowly walking over to the chess table.

She smiled, glancing at the walls that surrounded her. “It’s good to be back.” With that, she turned around and left the room, leaving faint scent of nightshade and incense in her wake.

Mycroft was not worried for her fate one bit. She was a brilliant warrior who had served on the front lines of private, delicate battles, but most of all, she believed she was on the good side of the war.

He gazed at the cheeseboard in front of him, running his fingers against the edge of the glass. It had been a gift from his dearest brother some years ago. They had, of course, since then discontinued the exchange of gifts. This one was his favorite though. Chess had always been their bonding tool, especially at a young age when he would teach his little brother the best strategies.

Yet another quiet room to make Mycroft feel at home. Then again, this had been his home not too long ago. He had just recently gone off to university, leaving behind his younger brother to be cared for by his loving parents. He didn’t approve though. They didn’t challenge him enough. How was he to improve without pushing himself? This is why Mycroft put it upon himself to teach his brother as much as he possibly could. It was easy when he was home but things were different now. He had classes to attend, research to partake in, assignments to complete. His brother was left in the monotony of country life as a twelve-year old, the prime of his learning absorption.

He was home for Christmas break. He debated whether or not he wanted to stay back there to help with additional research, but ultimately decided he did, in fact, want to spend some time with his brother.

Mother Holmes was currently in the kitchen cooking what smelled to be a roasted ham with her usual seasonings – the classic Christmas meal. Their father sat at the kitchen table reading one of his mystery novels. They both sat on the family room’s floor of their cramped country cottage in front of a blazing fire, a serving tray of tea and biscuits on a side table for them. Sitting across from one another with an aged chessboard in between them, they were in their own little world with nothing existing but the board and the pieces.

Not much talking would occur, but occasionally young curious Sherlock would ask Mycroft why he chose a specific move.

“What was that for?”

“You should occupy the middle of the board as much as you can. You have the most options from there.”

“Why haven’t you moved that bishop?”

“It’s too important. You should work the knights around first.”

“Why?”

“They’re vital to defend the middle spaces.”

They had played dozens of times, but Sherlock was still young and Mycroft had to remind him of certain simple strategies when he blundered. But as they both got better and better, their strategies starting differing.

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he carefully studied the board. “Your pawns are all gone,” he observed. They were many moves in and Mycroft could think of at least four different ways his could defeat his brother, but he was still in the teaching phase so he went easy on him, although he would never to admit to such a thing.

“They have no value. Sometimes you must sacrifice little to gain a lot.”

“But isn’t it far more impressive to win and still have the most pieces on the board?”

“Yes, but it isn’t always the easiest way. It’s far riskier.” He studied his brother, who didn’t look fully convinced with his explanation and tried to think of a better analogy. He found one within his own school focus – politics. “You have to think of it this way: the opponent is the villain that threatens Britain. Would you not sacrifice a few to save an entire nation?”

“Of course not,” he replied almost immediately, a fiery passion in his eyes as if almost offended by the question. “What’s the difference then, between you and the villain?”

Mycroft let the memory slowly drift away as he returned to the window, looking out just as the sleek black car drove out of his driveway and out the gates toward London, looming in the distance as if always reminding you that it was still there and still needed protecting.

He and his brother had not spoken for weeks after that comment. Neither of them was particularly happy about the implications – that Mycroft was a villain, or that he was attempting to turn Sherlock into one also. Just the word villain had repeated itself in his head quite often since the encounter. He had a few years of solace from the memory though, until that night he had his first and only break-in.

He was going to kill her. It would have been far too risky for the government to let her live. She was a professional hacker, one with quite a bit of physical skill, which was impressive but dangerous on the wrong side, and now she knew a fraction of secrets that were meant for few eyes only. There was no doubt in his mind. Except for one.

Villain.

Had she used any other word, uttered any other sentence, he would have had quite a mess on his hands, but nothing he couldn’t take care of. Her records would be erased or she would put in as a missing person if she had any close family or friends, which was not usually the case among the hacker community. Her body could easily have been disposed of. Such an insignificant death was but a minor sacrifice.

Instead, the memory of his brother’s first disappointment in him came rushing back as if to haunt the emotions out. He felt guilt, disappointment in himself. The confidence he usually maintained regarding his life shattered as he felt as if he were looking at his baby brother once more.

He had set the gun down that night and vowed to give this one a chance. Perhaps he just needed affirmation that Sherlock was wrong. Perhaps he wanted to turn her into what Sherlock could have been. Either way, his words won her over and she hadn’t turned back since. He had found his self-affirmation, his new mentee. It turned out Sherlock was right on one matter that day: sacrifices, while easy to make, weren’t always necessary.


End file.
